


Dress to Impress

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: Indulgence [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint goes all out with his Halloween costume, hoping Coulson will get the hint. Coulson, unfortunately, lost a bet with Sitwell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress to Impress

**Author's Note:**

> Please note this fic takes place well before The Avengers, and before Captain America is found in the ice.
> 
> Based on several prompts floating around tumblr, suggesting the characters dress in coordinating Halloween costumes, or the costumes of an in-universe OTP.

Clint had worked hard on his costume. He’d tracked down (and paid a small fortune for) an authentic uniform. He’d snuck off to an anonymous tailor on the other side of the city, to make sure it fit right and showed off everything he wanted it to show off. He'd scrolled through countless websites, checking details and reading how-to guides. He’d even bitten the bullet and created an account on a website so he could ask a cosplayer where she'd gotten her patches. That had led him to Etsy, and another account as well as a P.O. Box, both in an alias no one would ever be able to connect to him.

 

The sewing had been easy, a skill learned long ago in dusty tents and caravans. Then it had been a matter of tricking and charming his way into SHIELD’s weapons stores for his prop, lacing up a battered pair of combat boots, and wrangling his newly darkened and grown-out hair into a classic pretty boy style he’d normally never consider. Even the dog tags around his neck were in character.

 

_Barnes, James Buchanan_.

 

He got some appreciative looks as he left his apartment and headed for the party. That was fair. He looked good. He’d made sure of it, and they were welcome to look, even if they probably just thought he was some random World War II soldier. The devil was in the details, and he was well aware that very few people would catch the 107 engraved on his tags, or the wing patch sewn onto his sleeve. That was okay, though. He really only needed one person to notice anyway. And, come on. No way Coulson _wouldn’t_ notice. Clint just hoped he’d gotten everything right, because not only would Coulson notice Clint’s attention to detail, he’d also be sure to see any mistakes. The very thought made Clint’s stomach tighten with nerves.

 

Everyone knew Coulson worshipped Captain America. Some of them even understood that his knowledge extended to Bucky Barnes and all the Howling Commandos, and their histories. Only a privileged few knew that he secretly believed that the history books and the comic books and the powers that be had straight-washed the relationship between Barnes and Rogers.

 

“A sniper and his C.O., sir?” Clint had asked, his heart pounding wildly, after Coulson had drunkenly explained his theory. “Isn’t that against the rules?”

 

“S’love, Agent Barton,” Coulson had slurred. “Fuck the rules.”

 

Clint had laughed through his shock and managed to get Coulson’s door open and his security measures disabled before leading him to the couch. “What about what’s-her-name? Carter?”

 

Coulson had plopped down onto the cushions and shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe there was something there. Maybe Cap’n ‘Merica was bi. Or maybe he liked her and admired her and it was a sort-of-crush because that was what was acceptable. Because he was _supposed_ to.” He’d sighed and listed to one side. “Or maybe they were madly in love and the Bucky thing is just me. Too bad. ‘Cause that would have been _hot_.”

 

It had been the first and only indication Clint had ever gotten to see that Coulson was anything other than one hundred percent straight. He’d stared for way too long, trying to get his thoughts in order (and his heart and his hopes to calm down), before fumbling his way through getting Coulson some water and Advil and a blanket. Then he’d added a bucket, just in case, and left his softly snoring handler to his hopefully pleasant dreams.

 

The idea for his Halloween costume had come to him two months later, five months before the actual holiday and Sitwell’s annual party. (The year Sitwell had been in the Sudan on October thirty-first, Hill and Woo had broken into his apartment and hosted it for him.) Usually Clint just slapped together a token costume and slung a full quiver across his back, proclaiming himself to be Robin Hood or Legolas or William Tell. (Okay, it was usually Robin Hood. So sue him.) But the idea of showing up as Bucky Barnes to compliment Coulson’s traditional Captain America had taken root in his mind. And if Coulson wanted to read anything into Clint’s costume choice, great. If not, Clint could always play it off as a joke, a way to poke fun of Coulson’s monotonous costume, year after year.

 

“Oh my God,” Sitwell exclaimed after opening the door and recognizing both Clint and his outfit. He burst into a fit of laughter and ushered Clint inside.

 

“Laugh it up, fuzzball,” Clint said with a scowl, and Sitwell just laughed harder.

 

“That’s my line,” he said, gasping for breath and tugging on the black vest he wore. He shut the door behind Clint and nodded towards the back of the room. “He’s by the drinks, in case you were wondering.”

 

“I wasn’t,” Clint said, and he brushed past the other agent roughly, headed away from the drinks just on general principle. He landed at the snack table instead; he’d been so busy preparing earlier, he’d forgotten to eat. Of course, now that he was at the party—and Coulson was reportedly at the party—and there was no turning back, he found himself without an appetite. He picked at the carrots and chips despondently, his back to the room.

 

“Well,” said a familiar, dry voice, and he turned to smile at Natasha. “This will be interesting.”

 

He hadn’t even told her what he’d been planning, just in case he’d chickened out at the last minute. (His green shirt and brown belt had been standing by, waiting for him to do just that.) “I . . . You’ve been after me for years about it. It’s time. It’s just . . . easier this way.”

 

“Because you can deny any intent if it doesn’t go your way?”

 

“Pretty much.” He bopped her on her be-warted nose.

 

“Watch it.” She batted his hands away. “You accidentally knock that off and no one will know I’m a witch.”

 

“You and your minimalist costumes.”

 

She shrugged, unapologetic. It was a longstanding fight with Sitwell. No costume, no admittance. Natasha always claimed she dressed up enough in her day to day life at SHIELD, and consequently did the least she could possibly get away with, every year.

 

Clint’s finally allowed himself to look over the crowd, searching with intent. He started at the makeshift bar, but didn’t see a familiar form in formfitting blue. So he moved his gaze to the group by the kitchen, and then over to the few people dancing. He checked the groups conversing in corners, and the people flitting in and out of the hallway, but there wasn’t a Captain America to be found. “Um.”

 

“The good captain isn’t in attendance this year.”

 

Clint frowned, still searching. “But Sitwell said.” He looked back to the drinks table, knowing he hadn’t just missed him. Not with his eyesight. There was a Buffy, a zombie, and a Nixon in one group, and Hill was in a black catsuit with a gun strapped to one hip and sword on the other, her hair teased in a very sixties mod style. She was talking to a guy in a purple dress with some weird kind of pointy hat/veil combination going on. The guy shifted, and Clint choked on a baby carrot.

 

Natasha obligingly patted him on the back. “As I said: no Captain America this year.”

 

Clint finally managed to swallow, his eyes watering as he took a better look at Coulson. The purple dress was fitted over a dark pink shirt with long, poofy sleeves and a high neck. The veil was a softer shade of pink, resting over a headpiece with two distinct points, giving the impression of horns or animal ears or something. A delicate purple ribbon and turquoise amulet completed the look, wrapped around Coulson’s neck. It was odd and unexpected, and Clint scratched at one ankle with his toes. It was . . . kind of familiar, actually, but he couldn’t figure out why.

 

“What . . .” Clint shook his head. “Who is he supposed to be?”

 

Natasha laughed. “I’m not telling. Apparently he lost a bet with Sitwell.”

 

“Oh.” That would explain it then. Clint took a breath, trying to tamp down his disappointment. His costume wasn’t the same without a Rogers to play off of.

 

Coulson turned his head then, his eyes searching at Hill’s amused nod in Clint’s direction. Clint saw the way his eyes went wide for just a second, then dropped to Clint’s boots and slowly scanned up. Clint forced himself to stand still, and had to consciously inhale again at the look in Coulson’s eyes by the time their gazes met again.

 

Elegantly gathering his skirt, Coulson left Hill behind, and Clint felt Natasha melt away into the crowd. Clint turned to face him more fully, blindly putting his plate on the table behind him. He made himself smirk at Coulson as the man stopped in front of him. “Lost a bet, I hear.”

 

Coulson didn’t respond, just cocked an eyebrow at the sniper rifle slung over Clint’s shoulder. “Please tell me that’s a replica, Agent.”

 

“No can do, sir.” Clint grinned and patted the butt of the vintage rifle. “The op against the antique weapons dealer in Argentina.”

 

“You stole it from the weapons store?” Coulson asked incredulously.

 

“Not at all. If you check, I’m sure you’ll find all the appropriate forms in place.”

 

Coulson’s lips twitched. “I’m sure,” he replied dryly. But then he shifted, leaning in just a little, his voice quieter. “Sergeant Barnes, Barton?”

 

Clint licked his lips. “I, uh. Thought you’d get a kick out of it, sir. But . . .” He waved a helpless hand at Coulson’s dress.

 

“Yes.” The word sounded husky, low and hoarse, and Coulson cleared his throat. “Sitwell’s revenge, I’m afraid.”

 

“What did you do to deserve _that_?”

 

“It’s what I didn’t do, actually. Or, what I didn’t do by the deadline Sitwell set forth.”

 

Clint’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t get it. Who are you? Or was it just the most ridiculous costume he could scrounge up for you?”

 

“You don’t recognize it?” Coulson asked in obvious surprise, and Clint shook his head.

 

“I mean, kinda? Like I should know it, but I can’t pin it down.”

 

“Clint . . .” Coulson reached out, touching the wing design stitched over Clint’s bicep. Clint held his breath, recognizing the shift in name, and the shift in the air. Coulson looked from where his fingertip was tracing the edges of the patch back to Clint’s face. “I’m Maid Marian, Disney style.”

 

Clint laughed, just once, loud and surprised as relief and understanding swept through him. Coulson’s hand moved to the sergeant’s insignia on Clint’s chest, and Clint took a small step forward, well into Coulson’s personal space. “A sniper and his C.O., sir?” he asked quietly.

 

Coulson smiled at him, his eyes bright and crinkled at the edges. “Fuck the rules.”

 

Clint smiled back, then grabbed his maid by the waist, and kissed him.

 

On opposite sides of the room, Emma Peel and Han Solo whooped in joy, while a witch smiled into her cup.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone doesn't know Disney's Robin Hood, here's [a reference](http://desert-neon.tumblr.com/post/100140604448/just-for-reasons-dont-worry-about-it) for you.
> 
> Also, Maria Hill thinks she's hilarious, even if Coulson is the only one with the clearance to get the joke.


End file.
